The persian rug
by Black Perla
Summary: Lord Voldemort goes on holiday, or at least he tries to. In the meanwhile his followers are running rampant and unsupervised, Harry Potter is putting strange ideas in his head and his house elf is out for blood. His blood. LVHP slash.
1. Mayhem commences

**Story**: "The persian rug"  
**Author**: Black Perla

**Summary**: Lord Voldemort goes on holiday, or at least he tries to. In the meanwhile his followers are running rampant and unsupervised, Harry Potter is putting strange ideas in his head and his house-elf is out for blood. His blood. LVHP slash.  
**Warnings**: LVHP slash, I think, if I'm in the mood, and random insanity. Is now rated as T, will eventualy be rated an M, I think, or whatever rating is more appropriate.  
**Disclaimer**: If my name were J. K. Rowling I would be rich, very rich. As it is, my income is 10 euros a week, if my parents even remember. Amen.

---

Chapter 1: Mayhem commences

It was one of those days.

One of those days when you woke up and just _knew_ something was going to happen. Whether it be bad or good, he had no idea, and that made matters only worse, because he just didn't know what to expect, and how to possibly avoid it happening if it wasn't in his best interest. However knowing his luck it was probably something bad, so the only thing he could do whilst waiting was worry; and worry he did, for a day, for two days, for three days, until a week had gone by and nothing remotely out of the abnormal, he was used to living, had happened!

Harry believed himself to be a "man" of larger, clearer views, someone with the patience of a saint and able to cope with anything life decided to throw at him (and that is including _Avada Kedavras_ and mashed potatoes from Dudley's baby puree)... _that was the case, _until he woke up late -something he'd never been allowed to do before - on a Sunday morning to find the house devoid of anything Dursley-_ish. _That is to say: no horrendous décor, no outlandish and excessively frilly furnishings, no trails of snack packs and no waffling whales and nosy horses... erm, relatives.

Having finally decifered what the uneasy feeling had been all about, he looked out of the curtainless front room window to check if Vernon's car was still there, only to notice a picket sign planted in the old flower bed, proudly stating that number four, Privet drive was "on sale".

'Great, _just great._"

Fighting down the urge to hyperventilate, the gnawing panic, the sense of happiness and the burning desire of apparating to wherever his despicable relatives were and _Avada Kedavra-ing_ them on the spot, he sat down on the last vestige of the front room's furniture, the carpet, and started thinking.

---

Lord Voldemort was not having a nice day.

He had woken up at four o'clock, courtesy of some dumb bird which had no idea of what it had got itself into when it came pecking at _Lord_ Voldemort's window.

Mmm... he hoped Nagini liked her breakfast a bit on the burnt side.

After donning his impressive "Mr Evil" dark robes of doom, Voldemort decided he was thirsty. And everyone knows that a cup of tea is the answer to all your problems. Right? You're thirsty? Have a cup of tea. You're sad? Have a cup of tea. You're thinking? Have a cup of tea. I'm sleeping and you think I need some help? Wake me up and give me a cup of tea. You're guaranteed to lose one of your cups and saucers. So, just have a cup of tea, and all will seem right in the world. Anyway, we're going off track here, people!

So... So he called for one of the house-elves, but to his chagrin, Bilky, the head house-elf, sent him Wormtail. He'd have to have a chat with those elves one of these days.

Wormtail, in all his mumbling, fumbling, bumbling glory managed to bring him the very desired cup of tea. However he inconveniently forgot to remember that he did not like milk and that he'd specifically asked for _one_ spoonful, not _three quarters_, of sugar.

On the bright side, he did realise his error once the scorching beverage and afore-mentioned cup came hurtling through the air towards his head.

After hissing out a few obscenities and throwing one ore two, or, ok, maybe _six_, hexes, Voldemort snarled and sat himself down on his throne; the ratty Death Eater scuttled out of danger zone and the fuming Dark Lord's wand aiming area.

A few hours of utter boredom slouched by, until he became desperate, and decided to call his Death Eaters and see if they had anything remotely useful to report, other than the latest fashion news. Honestly, he already knew that! Why would he go and spend twenty nuts on "Gladrags, glad lads" magazine every month otherwise?

The next hour proved to be utterly useless, though he did enjoy watching Wormtail jump in fright every few minutes, every time Nagini went slithering past him. Ah, the joys of life!

Just for effect, he decided to spice up the meeting. "FOOLS!" he bellowed, "Why, I ask _why_, you incompetent bunch of fools never have _one single useful thing_ to say? Just... stop wasting my time!"

Evidently he'd been a tad too harsh, because his little tirade had prompted a scuffle to break out in the midst of the meeting room. Bilky would have his head on a silver platter, if she found one single speck of blood on the newly dry-cleaned Persian carpet. That elf _knew_ how to be scary. No wonder she'd been hired.

Wormtail, scared out of his wits of his master, had backtracked and trodden on Walden Macnair's foot, making him pull out his little hacking "toy", which in the force of the swing happened to brush against Lucius Malfoy's coiffure, shaving of exactly **two** hairs. Malfoy, cool as a cucumber, pulled out his wand, sans fluorish, and aimed a _Crucio_. The first one missed and hit Goyle, the second one hit target.

Goyle, having been hit, blindly crashed into Crabbe, who fell and brought the curtain and curtain rail down with him. Said rail grazed Bellatrix Lestrange's cheek, who promptly started screaming like a Banshee and casting _Crucio's_ left, right and center. She managed to hit the scuttling form of Pettigrew, who went and trod on Nagini's tail. Bad move.

The snake thrashed her tail angrily and bit into the nearest bit of flesh, which just happened to be Voldemort's hand.

Silence fell immediately like a feather light ton of bricks, because, let's face it, a ton of bricks _just wouldn't_ descend quietly... anyway, silence plunged upon them (Mad.A.N: Plunge, I like that word!), as all the black cloaked figures cowered in the corner.

"Out," hissed Voldemort, in his "I'm- very- angry- and- I- won't- be- held- accountable- for- my- actions" voice. Not that he usually was anyway. I mean, who would _dare_ to fine him, even if he **had **admittedly parked his broomstick in the middle of a zebra crossing, but he was drunk at the time _and_ he had been an exuberant youth. Exactly, he was a teenager (at the time), and he was entitled to be in the right, even if the whole world was against him.

A large crack resonated as all the Death eaters apparated away at once.

Nagini bowed her head apologetically and gently licked her Lord's hand, healing the skin immediately. Voldemort assured her it was all well and that it had been his incompetent follower's fault. The snake nodded and slipped out of the double doors, leaving her master, silently contemplating the room.

"I need a holiday," he muttered a few minutes later, and stood up.

The last thing Bilky the houself, who'd come to inform her master that regrettably Fenrir Greyback had raided the food stores again, saw, was a twenty year old Tom Riddle apparating away, without a sound.

"Bilky will refurbish the stocks before master is any the wiser." The elf nodded to itself, turned it's head towards the carpet and spotted a speck of blood. Oh dear.

---

A.N: So, what do you think? Absolutely barmy? Yep, you got it. Reviews are appreciated.

Btw if any of you are reading "Finding Each Other", I'd like you to know that I have written the next chapter, unfortunately however I can't access to the document because it's in my computer, which is lacking a monitor, since the bloody thing has decided to break down, _again._ Thanks for your time.

And thank God for laptops.


	2. Holiday hunting and the PiPi situation

**Story**: "The persian rug"  
**Author**: Black Perla

**Summary**: Lord Voldemort goes on holiday, or at least he tries to. In the meanwhile his followers are running rampant and unsupervised, Harry Potter is putting strange ideas in his head and his house-elf is out for blood. His blood. LVHP slash.  
**Warnings**: LVHP slash and random insanity.

---

Chapter two: Holiday hunting and the PiPi situation

The small bell hanging over the glass door jingled, as a tall man, with dark brown hair and striking blue eyes, walked in and made his way to the free seat in front of the assistant's desk.

Sitting himself down, the man patiently waited for the young lady to put down her magazine.

Five minutes later the woman was still avidly reading. Probably some ridiculously sappy article, the man scoffed to himself. Trying to keep calm and not blow his cover in barely five minutes, he softly cleared his throat.

The woman, startled, un-buried her nose from the magazine, folded it away, and looked up with an annoyed look. Obviously her job description didn't say _anything_ about serving customers, but it certainly seemed to have said something along the lines of: read your mags, and don't forget to be rude. _Obviously. _

However, her grumpy expression disappeared as soon as she saw _who_ was sitting in front of her. The _very_ handsome man gave her a rather pained smile, not that _she_ noticed it, what with her ridiculously long fringe, dangling in front of her eyes. Once more, he cleared his throat and said in a deep, mellow voice. "Good morning, miss, I was wondering if you could give me some brochures, and some information regarding possible holiday destinations."

The man vaguely wondered, if busting through the door, _Accio_-ing the leaflets and causing havoc in general, would have been a better option. Probably not.

The woman just stared at him, slightly dazed, and mumbled: "Hi..."

Or _maybe_ yes. They obviously weren't getting anywhere here.

Silence.

"... yes. Miss, the brochures...?"

"OH YEAH," she said, rather loudly, and busied herself with opening random drawers, pulling out various papers and putting some back in different draws, or shredding some others. "I'm Victoria, by the way, but you can call me Vicky, everyone does. Even my mother. My father doesn't even know that my actual name is Victoria, everyone just thinks I'm Vicky, not that I really mind. So, you know, you can call me Vicky!"

"Merlin... I don't think I _want_ a holiday..." He muttered to himself.

"Yes, holidays," she said wistfully, interrupting him, "I was supposed to be going on one with my fiancé, but _you_ _know_," she whispered conspiratorially, "we've been having problems."

The man gave her an incredulous look.

"Oh yeah! But I think I should start looking elsewhere. Find someone more appropriate, maybe then _we_ could do something together. I mean, my new _boyfriend_ and I."

(Insert pointed look and fluttering of magically elongated eyebrows on the woman's behalf.)

"_Oh my God,_" Voldemort, who _indeed_, was sitting in a travel agency, muttered desperately.

---

After what had seemed like ages, but actually had been only five minutes or so, Harry had come to a few conclusions regarding his rather problematic situation.

His relatives had clearly abandoned him and put the house on sale: in other words, he couldn't stay here any longer.

The security wards the Headmaster had so painstakingly reminded him of, would only work if he resided under the Dursley's same roof. _That _was no longer the case.

The Wizarding world was clearly unaware of the current situation, thankfully, giving him the opportunity to act fast and according to his own terms.

Lastly, but not least, he had finally, recently turned seventeen. This meant he was now legally, according to Wizarding laws, an adult and able to perform magic without alerting some privacy invading devices, placed on his person and whatnot, by the bunch of chickens running around the Ministry of Magic, with their heads chopped off. Politicians, what would life be without them?

Harry was a free wizard. Harry was a free man! But mostly, Harry Potter was a **horny** seventeen year old boy, ready to party. He was going to have a proper holiday, maybe he'd start with some chilling out; he was going out for adventure.

And now, he was going to visit his Gringotts vault. Money, money, money.

"Here I come, Geronimo!"

---

_Really_. No, really, what was the world coming to this day?

Voldemort had apparrated straight to Diagon Alley, intent on finding the first travel agency, so that he could book a nice, relaxing utopia of a holiday. Up to now, however, he had only learnt that the shop assistant's name was Vicky, that she was engaged, but - since the moment Lord Voldemort, looking like Tom Riddle, had walked in through the door- seemed to have encountered some problems with her relationship.

"Unfortunately," the busty blonde had simpered, "we might be breaking up. Dreadful." And then she had given him another one of her pointed looks, and started suggesting the pamphlet "A guide to London", as a possible location for his holiday, since he was looking for something exotic. The minor detail that she was _already_ in London, hadn't, as of yet, crossed her mind.

He knew absolutely nothing about what holiday-packages were on offer; if Ibitha was better than Tanzania; or if he should opt for a hitchhiking "tour" of New Zealand...

The girl had done nothing but simper and fawn, and try to hit on him. On _him - _ON HIM! Lord Voldemort, evilness extraordinaire and winner of "The- Best- Evil- Mwahaha- Laugh- And- Overlord- Appearance", for a smashing eleven years in a row!

Ah, the old days, those _were _the good ol' days... Then he'd regularly joined the competition, and hadn't even had to bribe the judge board, or use minor threats such as "loss of limbs" or "castration". Of course, he'd been sailing through the competition, until he'd incurred into the Potter Problem situation, which had now progressed to a good sixteen years.

Ever since, in fact, he'd regrettably developed a twitch in his right eye, which prevented him from giving off the _perfect_ look of Evilness.

Not to mention... the committee of judges just seemed to rake over every, single, blasted detail! What was a Dark Lord to do?

He was starting to consider the idea of dispatching a hoard of vicious, blood-thirsty Death Eaters on them. Definitely on that evil one, that complete, utter _prick_... what was his name again? Ah, yes, Simon Cowell! (A.N: Rejoice, oh lovers, of Our Lord Sarcasm!)

Anyway, back to Vicky!

Voldemort: "Do we _have to?_"

Author: "Why, yes, of course!"

Back to Vicky it is, then.

Who was she kidding? He thought furiously. Did she seriously think he'd walked in from La-la land? Everyone knew he'd only ever been to Kentucky and Timbuktu! Now that he though of it, though, he'd also been on a few EasyJet flights here and there...

And anyway, he didn't even like blondes. He liked the dark haired sort.

He silently contemplated the pro's of morphing back into his "Dark Lord" guise and seeing if she was still willing to go out for a few pints, but refrained himself from doing so. Honestly, mass panic attacks were _so_ messy.

Well, he'd had enough of this nonsense. He was legging it out of there. He silently wondered why he hadn't thought of escaping earlier, and promptly dissapparated.

And good job too, because barely five minutes later, a strange, green, flappy eared creature was seen tearing down the street, past the agency, waving what looked like a rug. And it looked fierce. Judging by the few crumpled old ladies who'd been trampled over by it. Weird, eh?

---

A.N: So, thanks to all who reviewed. I really appreciate that. School's started again, _merde,_ but on the bright side my computer is back, I've finally finished "Bugs Bunny Lost in Time", and my, or rather, _our_ family laptop, which I have obviously... _commandeered, _has only gone mad, thus has been shut down forcefully (with a lot of swearing), a minimum of three times a day. Good, eh?


	3. A sticky situation

**Story**: "The persian rug"  
**Author**: Black Perla

**Summary**: Lord Voldemort goes on holiday, or at least he tries to. In the meanwhile his followers are running rampant and unsupervised, Harry Potter is putting strange ideas in his head and his house-elf is out for blood. His blood. LVHP slash.  
**Warnings**: LVHP slash and random insanity.

---

Chapter three: A sticky situation

It was nine o' clock, on a Sunday evening, and Harry Potter was going to his first rave party. The teen knew it could prove to be a sticky situation (in more ways than one -smirk-), but what was the point of being an inconsiderate teenager, with no respect for the limits placed upon you by your elders -who only want to look out for your safety, if you couldn't inconsiderately jump, blindly and wholeheartedly, into a possibly problematic situation?

See his point? No? Well, he saw it, and that was enough incentive for the likes of him.

The young Potter was standing in the queue, waiting for his turn to enter, dressed from head to toe in his new clubbing outfit: _very fitting, _black leather trousers, military boots, and a silvery wife beater shirt. For privacy's sake and fear of encountering someone from Hogwarts, he'd transfigured his raven locks into dirty blonde ones, spiked up with an unhealthy amount of gel, which would have made Draco Malfoy proud.  
He'd left his eyes as they were, but had performed a temporary sight correcting charm, thankfully not poking out one of his eyes. His glasses were too much of a tell tale sign, and besides, he looked sexier this way. Vain male.  
And finally, he'd covered up his scar with a nice transfiguration, a notice-me-not charm and some muggle foundation, just for security.

After he'd headed off for Gringotts, he'd exited Diagon Alley, and went wandering about muggle London's shops. In some little side street, he'd found a small shop selling clothes.

The girl at the counter had helped him chose a few new outfits, among which the one he was wearing. After making him try everything on, giving him some colour coordination tips, and forcing him to come out of the cubicle to show himself all donned up, she'd then cornered him and forced some eyeliner on him.

According to her, his skin was quite pale, so his eyes needed a nice "frame" to stand out further.

Harry had wondered if she'd been mentally instable, but the girl had only muttered that HP slash fan fics and liking androgynous singers could do that to any girl.

Barmy. What _were _slash fan fics _anyway?_

(A.N: Wouldn't you like to know? -leers- Yet again, you **could** be scarred for life...)

---

Voldemort leaned against a pillar, surveying the long queue to enter the famous underground club. He really didn't feel like waiting in line for so long, but he wasn't a Dark Lord for nothing. He knew quite a few invisibility spells, and he planned on using one soon.

Massaging his temples, he willed away the beginning of a new migraine, and contemplated on the familiarity of the situation. It wasn't the first time his plans had gone up, and over the wall.

Right about now, he should have been sun bathing in Tahiti, while sipping a cocktail and reading "9.999 Ways to Irritate the Boy Who Lives to Ruin Your Days" by Tom Marvolo Riddle. A very talented writer indeed.

And here he was, dressed in muggle clothing, wearing a ridiculous hat, in his stealthy attempt to avoid being seen by a certain... someone (He had a hunch. He was **sure **someone or something was following him. And this had nothing to do with his usual paranoia regarding a rhinoceros in a pink tutu and a pig with glasses, who enjoyed quoting Shakespeare. No sir!), going to drown his sorrows in a club full of young, sweaty, excited bodies, rubbing themselves against each other, in lewd fashions, to the rhythm of the music blasting out of the speakers; while depressed, fugitive -not that he knew it yet- psychos, such as himself, sat drinking some illegal alcoholic concoction at the bar.

Technically he could have just apparated away to some location, showed up at some hotel, scared the wits out of the dim-witted receptionist and got the best room with a bonus discount. But... fuck technicalities, he'd wanted to do things the normal way for once. Act like someone normal, not like some deranged Dark Lord (with a house-elf hot on his heals) on holiday... which, basically, he was.

Lady Luck hadn't lent him a helping hand, and so he'd had to endure _Vicky, _Sandra _and _Matilda's advances. Merlin's balls. Next raid, his followers would be visiting three travel agencies. And he would make sure the guests of honour _would be there._

And if all that had happened to him wasn't enough, he couldn't return home, because he had this bad feeling, which had been assaulting him since he'd left the manor. And something told him that Bilky was out for his blood. _Probably something to do with the carpet._

Not-a-good-thing. He thought, shuddering to himself.

_Why _did he have to hire deranged, hyper, sensitive (Since _when_? That elf was Satan personified! Sensitive, my arse!), psycho house-elves?

Oh, right, appearances.

---

Harry's patience was shortening by the minute. Why was the bloody queue moving a centimetre an hour? _Why_ did he have to pick the longest queue? _Why_ did the woman in front of him disconcertingly resemble Albus Dumbledore with shiny, pink lipstick? No, it wasn't really him; he'd checked, the... woman, definitely had a bosom. Unless... (Ugh. Bad thought, bad thought. Euck!)

Anyway. _Why _did he have to stay stuck out here, while dozens of randy males got to act like animals? _Why _was life so unfair to him? _Why _did his evening have to start like this? _Why--_

Author: WHY DON'T YOU SHUT UP AND GET ON WITH THE BLASTED STORY?

Ok, so that's how Harry Potter decided to be astute. Muttering something about the toilet, he slipped out of the queue, and ducked into the nearest, private alcove. Which turned out to be occupied, so he ducked into another one, which, yes, was occupied. So he...

No, he didn't go looking for another alcove. He stunned the two muggles and hid himself behind a dust bin. He pulled off one of his boots, and fished around the inside of the shoe. Finally, he pulled out a crumpled, miniature invisibility cloak, resized it, and slipped it on, pulling the hood up.

Five minutes later, Harry was in front of the entrance. Creeping around the nearest guard who looked like a giant gorilla, he slinked towards the door but bumped into something. Something invisible.

"What the-?" he muttered. Luckily he hadn't attracted "King Kong"'s attention.

Picking himself up from the ground, he padded slowly, then ran towards the door.

CRASH!

_Oh fuck! _What was it? Was there some invisible barrier blocking him from entering? Had the Headmaster placed some bouncing spell on him, which activated when he tried going to clubs? Was there someone else?

Getting up again, he slowly walked forward. The presence was there, next to him.

"You first," he muttered.

"Thanks," replied the voice, and the presence was gone. What a mad world. Shrugging, he checked for any guards, and walked forward.

CRASH!

_For God's sake! **Why**_ do people have to leave banana skin peals around, where people can easily _kill themselves_?

---

An hour later, Voldemort was on his eighth Bloody Mary - spiked of course, looked still remarkably insane, err... remotely sane, that is. And thankfully hadn't yet jumped onto the counter, singing "I'm-A-Dark-Lord-And-Looking-For-Love", doing the "Mucho Crucio" dance, and using his wand as a microphone.

If he did end up in such a situation, he hoped he could resist the urge to go skipping around the room, shouting out "_Avada Kedavra_" at random strangers and watching them fall dead, without any explanation to his alcohol befuddled mind.

That last experience hadn't been fun. A whole bunch of Aurors had apparated in the pub, wand pointed to a very _pissed _Dark Lord's throat, with some deathly curse on the tip of their tongues. Luckily he'd started singing Jingle Bells, and that had scared them off...

Uh, he should have learnt by now, that getting drunk wasn't going to solve his problems.

Just as he was about to take a sip from his ninth glass, a young blond (What was it with blondes today?) male (Oh, thank God, I thought it was Vicky Two The Revenge), sat down next to him and ordered a Bacardi.

---

A.N: Dun, dun, duuuun! What will happen next? Actually I have no idea whatsoever, I better get down to thinking. But now... -drum roll- Home-bloody-work is waiting for me. Yippee!

Thanks to all who have reviewed.


	4. Someone painted the moon blue

**Story**: "The persian rug"  
**Author**: Black Perla

**Summary**: Lord Voldemort goes on holiday, or at least he tries to. In the meanwhile his followers are running rampant and unsupervised, Harry Potter is putting strange ideas in his head and his house-elf is out for blood. His blood. LVHP slash.  
**Warnings**: LVHP slash, I think, if I'm in the mood, and random insanity. Is now rated as T, will eventually be rated an M, I think, or whatever rating is more appropriate.

---

Chapter four: Someone painted the moon blue

Harry had been having the time of his life. He'd danced, giggled, jived and grooved. Several strangers had sidled up to him, trying to engage him in various… group _activities_. No one had gawked at his forehead for five minutes straight, and then _kindly _pointed out to him that he was "**_Harry Potter!_**". As if he wasn't already aware of the fact.  
Basically, all was peachy.

Having chosen a nice **_muggle_** club, he mused, the chances of bumping into some Harry Potter fans, random aurors or some member of the Order, were very few. As for Voldemort, _come on_, he had to be on some alternate universe to actually meet the man _at a disco_.

Now, parched and still bubbling with energy, he made his way to the bar. He sat himself down and ordered a Bacardi. Immediately one of the bartenders appeared holding out his drink. Harry picked up the glass, thanked the guy and took a sip. Another waiter appeared at his side and asked him if he wanted anymore ice.

He looked up, to politely decline the offer, and ended up spurting the aforesaid Bacardi onto the abovementioned waiters. "You!" The two waiters, with lots of freckles, _a lot_ of red hair, and looking _very much _like the Weasley twins, gave him twin suspicious glances from under their dripping wet fringes.  
Harry blushed faintly and silently cursed his stupid reaction, remembering that they couldn't recognize him. Giving them a cheesy grin, he choked out an apology. "Umm, sorry about that. I… choked."

Lame, Potter, _really_ lame. _I choked. _Of course you choked you bleeding idiot, his mind didn't fail to point out.

Fred, or was it George?, reacted first. Wringing his wet fringe, he gave Harry a smile. "No worries mate. We're used to _worse._" Harry nodded, mumbling another apology, as the twins walked over to some other customer, still shooting him strange glances.

_Oh, bloody, hurray! _He thought sarcastically, trying to resist the sudden urge to bash his head into the nearest hard surface. Feeling completely dejected, and fearing the twins had somehow recognized him, Harry gave into the seductive liquid, innocently awaiting his lips, in the glass in front of him, and found out that the tumbler was self re-filling.

_So_ it wasn't an only- muggle club.

_Cool._

Five glasses later he was feeling quite fuzzy, the world wasn't rotating any longer, but seemed to be bouncing, he was definitely tipsy if not a bit drunk, and ab-so-lute-ly bored.

His first "pissed off" state, should have been celebrated in company, he should have been having mind blowing sex, which he wouldn't even remember the morning after, or at the least a quick snog in a dark nook. Instead he was all alone, with nothing to do, before morning came around and he'd have to deal with the consequences. Mainly a hangover. Ugh.

Going back to the dance floor wasn't an option, considering the ominous spinning spaceships, also know as lights, which seemed to be too close for comfort. Looking around, he noticed an ideal companion, conveniently "sitting" on the stool just next to his.

"Hey!" He exclaimed, as he prodded the 'Guy- He- Did- Not- Know- With- His- Head- In- A- Peanut- Bowl'. "Hey, you," he demanded, "wake up. I want to talk." Thankfully his speaking abilities were intact, but that didn't exactly mean his alcohol- impaired mind wasn't in the slightest… impaired.

The man didn't answer him.

"Yoo hoo!"

A grunt.

Harry prodded him harder.

"Bugger off." The man muttered.

Harry smiled viciously.

---

Life was a bitch.

Where were the lapping waves and golden sand, when you needed them? Where were the flying seagulls and irritating children, squealing like a herd of… _Pettigrews, _waiting for him to _Crucio_ them?_  
_Why was he feeling absolutely drunk, and as if a woodpecker had decided to drill a hole into his skull? _Why_ was his head stuck in a peanut bowl? But most of all, _who_ was the bleeding _idiot_ who was yelling in his ear and prodding him incessantly?

Obviously, someone suicidal.

Yes, Lord Voldemort was depressed. And rather irritated.

---

Harry pinched the guy's butt. The man yelped, swirled around and snarled, his eyes flashing ruby, "I told you to _bugger off._"

"Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you," _hic _"but I seem to be having some problems standing on my own two feet! So I think I'll be staying _right_ here." Harry snarled right back, crossing his arms protectively over his chest. Then he started giggling.

---

The- the, the little mongrel cretin! How dare he pinch his butt? He had no right; screw that, **_no one_** had any such right. His buttocks were very fragile and sensitive, and _he_ had absolutely no right to traumatize them in such a manner.

And why was he laughing now? Was he insane? Wait, no, that was _his _job.

_Giggling_. Giggling, not laughing, he was giggling. At him. Oh hell, was his hair in a mess? Did he have bloodshot eyes? Wasn't he looking absolutely stunning? **_Why_** was he openly laughing at him!?

(That's the alcohol speaking… but we all know that men are vain.)

No, wait, what he meant to say is… Where is my wand? I need to curse the impudent brat!

His right eye started twitching. Great. The suicidal irksome guy was up on his list, on par with Harry Blinking Short-sighted Potter. Only _he_ had that effect on him. Now there were _two_ of them.

"What?" he snarled, hoping to shut the blond up.

"… you have… peanuts… peanuts stuck to your… forehead!" The young man managed to gasp out, between his incontrollable laughter. Voldemort growled.

_Why_ was everyone against him? First, the agency assistants, then his house elf, and now a random stranger. He was laughed at and misunderstood. And the peanuts weren't helping any. They were the seed of evil. The curse of humanity, sticking to innocent people's foreheads. Evil peanuts were enough to drive _anyone_ insane. Or so he thought.

"What's your name?" The stranger asked him out of the blue, having finally calmed down.

"Uh…" He wracked his brain for an alias, "… Harry." Ha, ha, ha! No one would ever recognise him.

The blond gave him a strange, calculating look. "And you?" Voldemort asked, feeling slightly unnerved.

"Tom," the blond replied. It was Voldemort's turn to give the other a calculating look.

---

O-kay… so he was blond, he wasn't wearing glasses, his scar was none existent and he'd christened himself as his arch nemesis. Seriously, no one would _ever_ recognise him. They had to be an evil, dark, gangly overlord to actually find out the truth, which obviously this man was not. Really… Lord Voldemort with his head in a peanut bowl? That was totally… impossible. Something that would happen once in a blue moon.

"So…" Harry, a.k.a. 'Tom', asked. "Why are you here… ?"

The man looked at him straight into the eyes, and sighed. "I'm on the run from a house elf."

Harry gawked. "A _house elf?_" he muttered. "Are you a wizard?"

The dark haired man nodded. "Yes. It is highly undignified, on my behalf, to be running away from a servant. But trust me, that is no normal elf. That is truly _Voldemort's _head house elf."

Harry chortled. "Oh, come on, it can't be _so_ bad. I'm sure your elf is merely a bit… excited. It's normal. House elves are always so… _high._ So… you're on the run from a house elf. Anything else I should know?"

"Nothing concerning _you_." The man bit out suddenly, rather tersely. "And why are _you_ here?"

Harry blew some hair out of his eyes. "I'm partying. But… nothing _you_ should concern yourself about."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"Sure."

"Huh."

"What?"

"You have a peanut on your nose." Harry giggled. The man snarled and swiped at his nose.

"It's still there!" Harry chortled.

"Well, let it stay there, then." The so called "Harry" responded.

Harry snorted, and acting totally on impulse, leaned over and licked the peanut off the other man's nose. "Mmm… salty."

---

Voldemort was in total shock.

A random stranger had just leaned over and licked a peanut off his nose. Ok, that sounded plain stupid, but he was in shock. He was supposed to be always on alert, and he'd been caught by surprise.  
Well, he _was_ drunk, so it was perfectly understandable. And no, the feeling of the other man's tongue on his skin had _not_ been enjoyable! What kind of weird fetishes did he have? Nose licking… ?

He seriously needed a psychiatrist. _To hell with world domination. The Teletubbies were already one step ahead of him anyway. What with coercing young minds via television. Now he needed some help._

Shaking his head, he glowered at the blond. "_What_ exactly do you think you are doing?"

"I thought that was quite obvious. I licked a peanut off your nose."

"Well, _thank you _for your assistance, but it is not needed." He replied sarcastically. The blond huffed and sipped his drink.

Voldemort sighed. If anyone had talked to him with such cheek, when he was in his right mind… erm, rightly _insane _state of mind, the guy would have been twelve feet under. As it is, he _was_ rather drunk.

Well, it was never too late for another drink. He picked up his glass of Vodka and drank it down in a few gulps. The glass re-filled itself automatically. _Yippee!_

…

While the Dark Lord drank himself to lunacy, the blond sat next to him and watched him. The piercing stare was irritating him, but he didn't pay it any attention.

Twenty minutes later, Voldemort was drunker than ever, and, feeling rather cheerful, was clumsily climbing onto the marble counter. He was just about to start singing, when the entrance doors, next to the bar, swung open to reveal a small, greenish creature, wearing a black apron, who was waving a bottle of "Lizzie Witch's Stain Remover" in it's left hand, and what looked like a blood stained carpet in the other.

"Oh shit."

---

Harry, having been roused from the clatter of glassware, looked over to his companion. The man was quite handsome… scratch that, he was plain sexy, even when he was totally pissed. Not to mention, it was quite entertaining watching him make a complete fool out of himself.  
He'd somehow clambered over the counter and seemed just about to start singing, when a loud ruckus, in the direction of the front entrance, distracted him. The man turned so white, one would think he'd seen his homicidal house elf on a rampage... which, just happened to be the case.

He didn't have time to enjoy the show, however, because the dark haired man flung himself off the counter and fell on top of Harry. Quickly picking himself up and using Harry as cover, he slowly made his way to the other side of the club. The elf however recognised her master immediately and shrieked. "Sir! You shall be paying! I had the carpet washed last week. Bilky is being **_very_** angry."

Harry just stared at the confrontation, totally disoriented. The man, "Harry", pulled him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and ran for it. Now _that_ was what he called a retreat.

The two of them thankfully made it out of the building. They quickly ran down a side street and hid behind some litter bins. Down the other end of the street, they could hear the irate house elf causing mayhem and spraying the stain remover frantically on whoever passed by her way.

_Scary._

---

Voldemort shivered. He quickly turned to his companion, unwillingly thrown into the situation, and gave him a pleading look. Dire means were needed in dire situations. He could deal with his pride later.

"Tom," the blonde started at the name, and Voldemort decided to get an explanation later, "I need your help."

"What…?"

"Can I, can I… _please _stay at your place tonight?"

The blonde stared at him piercingly. "I guess… you could."

The Dark Lord sighed, and gave him a thankful look. "Very well. You'll have to lead the way. Where shall we _apparate_?"

---

Harry and his guest, had thankfully made it to Harry's hotel room without _splinching_ themselves or killing themselves in the lift.  
They'd made it into the small foyer and over to the desk, without attracting too much attention. The guy at the desk had looked up when they'd entered, but had simply gone back to his newspaper.

Muggles in Soho hotels were less accustomed to rising inquiries, except for extreme cases. The ride up in the lift had been quite cramped, but they'd somehow made it to Harry's room. He'd had some trouble with unlocking the door, considering he kept missing the keyhole. But when he'd finally managed getting in and had shut the door, he sighed a sigh of relieve and turned around, feeling rather dizzy, to his guest.

"You can kip on the sofa…"

He didn't finish the sentence because the other "Harry" slumped forward, and brought them crashing to the ground. Harry moaned.

---

Voldemort walked into the small _muggle_ hotel lobby. It was a strange choice for a wizard, but it would be very useful. Bilky would never think of searching for him here. Or at least he thought so. He _hoped_.  
The two of them had somehow drunkenly made there way to the blonde's room. Once they'd entered, the other man had turned around to say something to him, but his mind was very hazy and his head was spinning uncontrollably. Words turned into sounds, shapes into blurs of colour.

Gravity pulled him down and he fell on top of the blond. The blonde moaned with pain. Then, realizing their position, he blushed. Breathing the other's intoxicated breath, Voldemort looked into the blonde's striking emerald green eyes. How strange… he hadn't noticed them before, he thought hazily.

They were pretty.

_The man_ was very pretty.

Before he knew what he was doing, he bent forward and kissed the full red lips below him. _Soft._ The blond entangled his arms around his neck, and both battled each other's enquiring tongue. Soon clothing came off in a frenzied rush to touch and taste more of that delicious skin.  
The blonde sucked and nibbled on his neck, sending shivers down his spine, while his hands wandered all over, needing the contact _so much_. God… he _was _intoxicating.

Thankfully the floor was carpeted, and in their rush to denude each other, they'd pulled some of the settee cushions down around them. Well, at least they wouldn't have to suffer back aches in the morning. Though, he fervently wished morning would not come, as a hazy cerulean light filtered through the open glass window, and the blue moon bathed their entangled bodies in an ethereal glow.

---

_Sitting on top of a roof, of a hotel in Soho, Bilky sighed. She was **sure** he was somewhere around here. But where…? Master had been a very bad boy!_

---

A.N.: How now, readers? First things first. For those who did not know, a blue moon does actually exist. Secondly I'd like to apologize for the longer than usual wait, I've been fagging away at school. _Isn't that fun? _And last, but not least… Oh my God, I wrote a teaser semi-slash scene. Poor innocent me! Yeah, _right_. snort


End file.
